Painstakingly Negligent

Twinkling eyes,
Barren lips,
Burning throat and scorching heat.
One droplet to overflowing teardrops.
A collection of nodding heads huddle,
What will suffice this thirst for hunger?
This appetite, no feast can gratify.

I am hunger.
I am silence, and I am screams.
I am armies, and I am kings.
None sees me, the dread is felt.
Of swollen bellies and deflated limbs.
I am the natural, and the unnatural.
I am the giver, and the taker.
It is I who resurrect in the form of bread,
Indifferent to your door, more than often.

For generations,
Men have fought my battles and died,
Only to make me immortal.
I am pain, and it is I who heal.
I am god, and it is I who transgress.

Another act of transgression. Another collection of heads huddled together, some hung lowly and others bearing gleaming eyes. Hollow stomachs echoing loud deafening rumbling noises that shut out the mind, but the heart growls. The heart is in anguish, but the mind tries to rationalise. Body, mind, soul- all have been defied. Buried in blurred realities, the sight is clouded. The eyes no longer see the eagerness and the enthusiasm of its audience, all it can see now is the impoverishment. The illusory masks of survival, and the human instincts to maintain the basic foundation of existence evaporate, and what’s left behind is the vision of a pitiful naked new-born baby. The purest form of flesh making its way into a horrid world. Abstained from sin, it must bear the horrors of a cosmos ridden with sin. We see now, in the cries of the child, the pain of repaying others’ debt. The innocence is lost in a tide of overwhelming tremors. Given no agency to thoughts and choices, the child knows that it must fight a battle it neither started nor opted to be a part of. As every passing day becomes heightened with a drug, the high of which one cannot escape, life begins for the new-born with the foresight of a sullen future which will perpetuate itself. Suppressed voices of inertia question if the universe should consider this child a new-born or just another (“any “other?) born to die. They question if this vision is an illusion or the one we conveniently call reality.

– By Tansheet Hassan


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